


Where Hearts Find Health

by ClementineStarling



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6008440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... And Deadly Wounds Find Cure.</p><p>:P</p><p>Blackwood invites Coward for Valentine's Day...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Hearts Find Health

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry guys, I know this is a bit chaotic and unformed, but I only decided today I wanted to write sth for Valentine's Day. Because a) why not and b) I'm growing suspicious of the quietness on our commentfic-prompt-thingy and every opportunity to shake you awake a little must be seized. Don't go back to lying dead-dreaming at R'lyeh or sth! I'm still hungry for ze words!!! (Gimme all ze words!) ♥
> 
> Warning: I'm inclined to tag this as "fluff", but probably "extremely cheesy attempt at writing romance" and "beware, gore" would be more accurate. (Make of this whatever you like) Should be rated somewhere between explicit and mature, it's not very graphic, so... idk

Coward is accustomed to the ever-changing array of Blackwood's companions, to the quick succession of noble ladies and poor girls, beautiful women and maidens scarcely blossomed into adulthood, mediums, witches, whores, he is not picky about them. Not as picky as Coward would have him, that is. If anyone had asked, he would have answered, he didn't think them good enough, unworthy of Blackwood's attentions, and it's only when he sees him with a man for the first time, that he admits to what he truly feels: jealousy.

The sight raises an unspeakable hope in him and crushes it at the same time with such exquisite cruelty, it leaves him breathless. It is like seeing the gates of heaven swing open, just enough to catch a glimpse of eternal bliss, only to have them slammed shut again a moment later, and to live henceforth with the intimate knowledge of what it is that he cannot have.

For there is nothing in him, that compares to the boy. Nothing but their sex.

Coward is dark where the boy is fair, and pale where he is golden. He has power, wealth, status – all these things that do not go well with affairs of such a nature. He is smart, cunning, not gentle or innocuous. But worst of all he is not young anymore, not a near-child who still conveys a sweetness of body and mind, this precious softness one loses with age. The years have Coward's beauty deprived of its air of innocence, an irretrievable loss that he sees mirrored in the boy's gorgeous face. 

How pliant he clings to Blackwood, and how proud and possessive Blackwood's hand rests on his neck. He is a mere toy, something pretty to pass the time, and yet he will come to enjoy a touch, Coward can only dream of. Unbidden the pictures flash into his head: how this disposable boy will be allowed to service his lord, how he will be claimed by his hunger, anointed with his passion, and Coward keenly feels all these sharp edges he has acquired over time in the way his teeth cut into the wickedness of his smile. He is in the habit of getting what he wants, and he doesn't take kindly to being denied.

He knows better than to display his displeasure though, tries to keep his expression as impassive as ever, when he nods politely towards Blackwood, no different from their usual greetings, even though he would love to tear the boy to shreds with his bare hands, pictures it vividly before his mind's eye, the blood and unravelled viscera, and he can't be sure if he succeeded in disguising his thoughts, because for a second he believes to see a flicker of something strange in Blackwood's gaze. Something _knowing_.

They sit down across from each other in a private room, on upholstery so plush, it seems like a sin in itself, and while a girl serves drinks, Coward has ample opportunity to study Blackwood's long fingers running lazily along the boy's neck, a caress that makes the boy lean further into him, offer that vulnerable throat to hungry teeth, and Coward watches mesmerised how Blackwood's mouth descends on the tender flesh, how the boy twitches and moans in utter abandon, eyes squeezed shut. The bruise is lurid and raw when Blackwood finally lets go of him, and Coward swallows hard. His whole body feels odd, the skin too tight, the glass in his hand alien, the cigarette forgotten. Somehow he is light-headed. Maybe he forgot how to draw breath?

For some silly reason he did not count on Blackwood taking it as far in the company of others, although, to be fair, with women he'd done it before, put on a show for an audience to demonstrate the unapologetic nature of his lust, only somehow Coward did not think much of it. It somehow felt like an essential part of his routine, not truly intimate, the women merely props for his performance, but this, this is different. 

For one, Blackwood invited him for the evening, to this most exclusive of clubs, reserved for the richest and lewdest of London's high society. A place where nothing is forbidden, no desire too vile not to be catered to. He'd invited him before, along with others of the Order, obvious in his intention to shock and to seduce, sort wheat from chaff, see who was willing to overcome ridiculous morals in favour of fulfilled desires and power to be gained. Only this time Coward has found himself alone in the parlour reserved for Blackwood's gatherings, and now he doubts whether anyone else will join him eventually. And what is even more, he can't see any form of entertainment planned for him. Usually Blackwood has something staged, a display of utter depravity most likely, supplemented with drink and drugs, and company engaged for the evening, willing girls with clever fingers and even more clever mouths, who in the course of the night would take his guests by the hand and abduct them to some dim room to prove their expertise.

But today Coward just sits in his armchair, spell-bound, to witness the spectacle unfolding; it's as if he can feel every touch himself, and the desire is surging inside him, a hot wave of urgency, that must be visible as a furious blush on his pale skin. He stares at Blackwood's hand, how it glides over the boy's thigh, upwards, further and further towards that suspicious tightness in the boy's trousers, and it's nearly reached its target, when Coward cannot take it anymore. He jumps to his feet.

“Excuse me, my Lord,” he stammers, eyes cast downwards, and bows. He is at the door before Blackwood can say anything; before he can allow himself one last glance at the scene, that would make him reconsider, and still it is burned to his mind, disturbingly vivid. He is in fact so blinded by it, he almost runs into the madam of the house. Mumbling an apology he is about to sidestep her to hurry on, when she gently touches his sleeve. 

“Lord Blackwood has given instructions to ask you not to leave, my Lord. Perhaps we can find other amusement for you while you are waiting?”

Coward is still dazed enough to let himself be ushered to a séparée down the hallway that appears to have been set aside for him. A girl is already waiting, kneeling in front of the chaise longue, lighting a pipe. She is dressed in an orientalist costume, which for all its exoticism is clearly recognisable as boys' attire. Apart from the guise (and the sex) she could be a twin of Blackwood's boy though – the same age, the same golden beauty, the same devout adoration. Coward almost smiles. Blackwood knows his moves. This is just slightly beyond the appropriate, and at least an acknowledgement of the trick he played on him. He should be livid to be teased and toyed with, but somehow he finds himself oddly appeased by the gesture, and he decides to surrender to the treat. Not that he could think of much else than finding release of the tight-wound tension curling in his guts.

He settles down and takes the pipe, pulling the spicy-sweet smoke deep into his lungs while the girl is swift to open his trousers and retrieve his cock, this treacherous appendage that so readily betrays his excitement. There isn't much effort necessary to have it fully erect, and Coward does not know whether to be ashamed or proud of his readiness. He closes his eyes while he is being swallowed, imagines the act reflected in another room, imagines his own mouth stretched around Blackwood's girth, the heavenly weight on his tongue, the greediness of his throat around the length. It does not take long like this, and when he comes, in small shudders and with Blackwood's name on his lips, it is more relief than reward. For a moment he is almost at ease though, the smoke mingling warm and fuzzy with the afterglow.

But as soon as the high of arousal ebbs and fades, a sense of disgust is swelling inside him. He should not have succumbed to so cheap a surrogate, it feels like betrayal, sacrilege. Like a test he failed. What if Blackwood intended to try him? What if he was supposed to send the girl away and wait?

She is still kneeling between his legs, rubbing her face against his thigh like the human version of a cat, feigning contentment, and he is sickened by it. He wants to slap her for making him believe he wanted her, whip her bloody for the sheer insolence of it.

“You can leave now,” he says instead. He is no animal after all. Although he had any right to be; he is sure Henry paid for anything he might have fancied, there are few things money will not buy in this house. Not that she has any inkling of it, it seems. Even without opening his eyes he can see her expression, that half-genuine disappointment at the absence of praise or gratefulness, as though it were his duty to thank and cherish her for playing his wife for a quarter of an hour. She is lucky, the drug has washed all impulses of cruelty from his mind. 

He just lies there with closed eyes, and listens to the rustling of fabric as she gets to her feet, he is sure she curtsied before leaving, but his mind is already wandering again, lost in the opium haze.

He could not have said how much time has passed when he hears the door open again, a minute, an hour, none seems more likely than the other. His lids are too heavy to lift them. Perhaps he is still sleeping? Someone comes closer, the sound of feet almost completely muffled by the thick carpet. A weight settles beside him on the settee and still Coward refuses to open his eyes. But then long fingers comb into his hair, and the touch jolts through him like lightning. He _must_ be dreaming.

“Oh Daniel, look at yourself” Blackwood says, clearly amused by his state of dishevelment. “Where is all your primness now? You may just as well have stayed and enjoyed my gift for you.”

He pushes a box into his lap, and Coward cannot possibly refuse to see what it is. Reluctantly, afraid the dream might stop once he leaves the darkness, he blinks. The gift box is just large enough to cover his nakedness he realises, for his trousers are still undone and he is exposed to Blackwood's eyes. The thought jerks him awake at last, the spike of adrenaline causing his pulse to start racing.

It's not a dream, it can't be. Blackwood next to him, his elegant fingers still carded through his hair in a lover's gesture. He does not dare move, lest he lose that touch, and with shaking hands fumbles open the box. For a moment he is at a loss what it is he is holding; he only stares at it for several seconds, a slimy lump of something soft, something meaty sitting on the red stained tissue paper, until he understands what it is. A human heart, still warm from the chest it was ripped out of.

He looks up, directly into Blackwood's eyes, and before he can even believe his luck, Blackwood reaches out, grasping his jaw with blood-wet fingers and painting him in his sin, and Coward holds his breath in anticipation.

“Do you accept my gift?” Blackwood asks, and he only nods, still frozen in disbelief. _This can't be happening._ And then, then Blackwood's lips are on his, hungry, wonderful, sensual lips, and Blackwood's hand comes to lie heavy on his thigh, and this time Coward stays put when it starts gliding upwards.


End file.
